Life is Fleeting
by The Unbreakable Snape Fan
Summary: Shawn/Gus, Gus's POV. Takes place the night of "An Evening With Mr. Yang" after Abigail goes home.


Life Is Fleeting

I'm well aware that I'm the Watson in our modern day Sherlock Holmes shenanigans. There are two major obstacles in the way of having a complete connection, though, because Shawn is interested in flirting with any and everyone and I can read Shawn much better than Watson could ever have hoped to read Holmes.

Plus, Shawn isn't addicted to anything but attention.

Anyway, it was very easy to tell that Shawn paused before getting out and was very reluctant to do so at all.

"Shawn?"

Shawn turned to me.

"You won't be able to sleep tonight, will you?"

Shawn shrugged.

I sighed. I helped Shawn get some clothes together, and his toothbrush, before herding him back into the car. I let Shawn choose the radio station as we sat in relatively comfortable silence on the way to my apartment complex.

Alright, one more thing: I wasn't a doctor like Watson, per se. I was just a pharmaceutical rep. But we didn't live together anyway, at least not all of the time. Trust me; you don't want Shawn hanging around for too long at your place. He might take root there, like a fungus.

I was glad I'd remembered to make him bring his own toothbrush, because all my extras are for guests, and Shawn is just Shawn, even when he's staying over. He doesn't stay over often, but sometimes he gets upset. Not many people know that about Shawn. I don't think he likes his apartment very much, even though he claims to have nothing against it. Maybe he just likes a change of scenery.

When Shawn sleeps over, I either make him take the couch or share my bed. I'm not going to wash sheets just because his white ass can't be left alone. I may be his best friend, and I may let him get away with a lot, but it's not worth washing a set of sheets over. I have a queen size bed, and neither of us is overweight, so we fit pretty nicely. It's kind of nice, actually. It kind of feels like we're 9 years old again, having a sleepover. Not too close to each other, and certainly not too far away.

Shawn usually gets me to make him some pancakes or something like that in the morning. He knows I hardly ever make him leave on an empty stomach, not unless I'm very annoyed with him. And, since it's Shawn, sometimes I am. He just has this way of making people feel played, especially when that person is me.

Shawn doesn't look too good just about now. He's a little pale and he keeps rubbing his forehead. I lead the way up the stairs and unlock my door, going straight for some acetaminophen and a glass of water. It's for Shawn, not for me. I take his bag back into my room. This definitely isn't a couch sort of night.

In many ways, we are all still 9 years old, but no one more so than Shawn Spencer. Don't try to find any weird meaning in this next piece of information, but sometimes I hold him. Life-long best friends know what's needed, and he is my life-long best friend. I won't apologize for that, and I shouldn't have to.

It takes a real man to know that it's okay to want to be held. Everyone has moments of weakness. That's what separates us from the animals. Shawn's moments of weakness are usually very private, like the silent plea to be just a little closer to his best friend and confidant. This is something I'll never stop granting him, just like I know he'd do for me if I ever needed it. He may make fun of me for screaming like a little girl, but if he thought it would really hurt my feelings, he'd never do it. He's a good guy.

And, in fact, he was something of a hero now. I think he had a real point about breaking the tension of such a serious case with bursts of comedy. Since the comedy was my own, it may have been a little lacking, but Shawn didn't seem to mind.

The day had drained him; that much was apparent. I didn't mess around. I went to brush my teeth and change into pajamas, and then let Shawn do the same before he lay down, looking pensive. I'm a grown man, but I'm not ashamed to say I have a nightlight. Do you know how many men have had accidents in the dark of their own bedrooms and severely injured themselves or even, in some cases, gotten themselves killed? Forget that. My bedroom is my sanctuary, and I'm not getting anyone's blood out of its carpet, whether mine or Shawn's.

I turned off the big light and slid under the covers next to Shawn. He doesn't actually have pajamas. He'll just put on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Sometimes he won't even wear that much. Alright, this is sounding in poor taste again, isn't it?

I, on the other hand, had on a pair of nice, maroon pajamas. I'm a man who likes his pajamas. Shawn might like them too, if he ever gave them a chance. He's funny that way.

His body pressed closer and he let his head rest on my shoulder. I stroked his hair a little bit. He's always liked that kind of motherly affection, no matter who it came from. I heard him sniff and reached over for a Kleenex from the box on the bedside table. He took it. I stroked his hair a little more. "You did a good job, Shawn."

"You too," he whispered. His voice was pleasantly rough, and I could just make out his vulnerable expression in the dim light of the nightlight. I'm not ashamed to admit that Shawn is a very handsome man, in a rugged way. I always knew he would be. He was always getting noticed by all the girls who wouldn't look at me as anything more than a friend.

The only time I ever felt handsomer than Shawn was during our case for Ciaobella Masterson, the one about the death of her husband Gregor Uwe-Steeb. Berlinda and all the other models accepted me immediately. Yes, the shallow, beautiful kids took in the nerd for once. I think I let the attention go to my lavender-scented, oiled head. What can I say, though? Berlinda was _fine_. She was also really adorable. She had wanted a pet dwarf bunny as a child too, and there is no pet out there that is cuter than the dwarf bunny. Trust me; I've seen a lot of pets in my day.

Shawn has done a lot of rotten things to me in the past, but revealing to Berlinda that I wasn't really a model was one of the rottenest. He's the most jealous best friend in the world. Every time I find someone to date, he gets all whiny and possessive, like he's exemplifying some sort of separation anxiety. That's not my department. That's Henry's. But Henry doesn't like to be responsible for the emotional consequences of his actions either. Like father, like son.

I even let Shawn set me up once, you know? I did it to see if his opportunity to choose the woman would stop the situation from setting off his separation whatever. I gave him a chance to have a little control over my dating life, since it obviously bothered him, and how does he repay me? He set me up with a transvestite. And then he acted like he hadn't realized it either, but the twisted thing is that _he totally had_. I didn't recover from the shock for weeks.

Speaking of recovering from a trauma, Shawn seemed to get a hold on himself after a little while, and I just let myself think about the past 24 hours in silence until I felt him fall asleep.

There's nothing like holding Shawn Spencer, modern-day Holmes, as he sleeps. He's not observing anything. He's not saying anything. He's not trying to impress anybody. He just belongs to you, for that brief period of time. He's nothing but a sleeping body. He's just like everyone else. Sometimes Shawn can seem a little larger than life, but all it takes to remind me he's my same best friend from all those years of personal history is a set of closed eyes and a quiet snore.

It doesn't take me long to fall asleep then either.

The next morning, Shawn is making the pancakes. If I want breakfast made for me in the morning, I have to sleep at my parents' house for the night, and that is absolutely not worth the trouble. I'm a man who likes his independence. Parents are always going to stand in the way of their grown son's independence. It's one of those laws of the universe.

But here Shawn was, making pancakes. I quickly got up, blankets tangling at my feet as I ran out to make sure he wasn't going to burn the place down in his mental state. He just turned toward me and smiled this soft, mischievous half-smile, and went back to making pancakes. Relaxing, I settled down at the table, but I still didn't take my eyes off of him for one second.

They were good. I knew they would be, as long as Shawn's head was in the right place.

"How do you know if you like a guy?"

I was twirling a piece of pancake in the syrup on the plate, and stopped mid-twirl. "What is that supposed to mean, Shawn?"

"Well, okay...what does being in a healthy relationship with someone who loves you mean to you?" He sort of stabbed a few pieces as I contemplated my answer.

"I guess it just feels like you have someone who is there for you when you need them to be, who you can hold a great conversation with, and who knows the real you and embraces even the worst parts of you."

"Sounds mushy."

"Well, yes, I guess it is a little mushy. You and Abigail have time to work on a relationship. I like her."

"You do?" He looked up, then he looked back down at his plate, making little trails through the syrup with a tine of the fork. "I'm not really talking about Abigail in particular. Just, you know, someone. Anyone," he added quickly, eyes glancing back up at me.

Well, whatever he was trying to convey with his eyes wasn't as clear as he thought it was, or maybe he hoped it was as muddled a message as I was receiving. "You want to say it, Shawn. Whatever it is that you're not saying, you should go ahead and say it."

He dropped the fork to the plate with a clatter, sitting up straight, looking right at me. "Gus? Do you remember when I sat next to you in that bank, with our shoes off, and you told me that life is fleeting and you need to live it? That you need to say the things you're feeling and act on those feelings before it's too late? And that I need to too?"

I was a little surprised he'd remembered that speech in particular. I'd been a little ruffled at the time, and more than a little dramatic. "Yes, Shawn. Yes, I do. You're already dating Abigail, though."

"Jules asked me out last night."

"What? You're kidding."

"No. If I were kidding, I would have said _Lassiter_ asked me out. Come on, you know Juliet's been all over me, secretly. Probably writes my name in the corner of police reports and whatnot."

"That's doubtful."

"Regardless, that's not really the point either. Jules, I mean. I...I'm going to stand up and I'm going to act on a feeling. Right now. And you can't say anything until I'm done."

"I'm not agreeing to that."

He shrugged, standing. "Worth a shot." He made his way around the table, leaning down to look me in the eye. "Gus?"

"What?" I backed up a little in the chair, trying to create a little more space between us. He leaned in, and our noses bumped briefly before he adjusted the angle of his face, and then we were kissing.

My eyes were wide as he pulled back, standing up again. "Okay, you can say something now," he said.

It took me a while to be able to speak after that, actually. I can't really imagine anyone being in my position and not feeling devoid of the ability. But, finally, I cleared my throat and attempted a response. "What the hell was that, Shawn?" My voice was quiet.

"I was acting on the feelings. Remember?" He rubbed my head briefly, which caused me to narrow my eyes, and then he went back around to his side of the table and kept eating, acting like he hadn't just turned our friendship down a path it had never gone before.

"If you're messing with me, Shawn—"

"Wouldn't dream of it. Look, you embrace the worst parts of me. You're obviously here for me," he said, gesturing around the kitchen, the apartment. "And, usually, we hold good conversation."

"Yeah, you know, when you're not kissing me."

He grinned.

"This is too much, Shawn."

His face darkened slowly. "So, I should just call Abigail and set up another date?"

"You mean you weren't going to?"

He shook his head. "I thought maybe we could do last night again, without Abigail. Or anywhere, really."

"You're serious."

"Guilty as charged."

"How could you be serious?"

"Look, can you just RSPV for our date? Are you in or out?"

"Shawn, this is—"

"—isn't a joke. It's not a joke."

I let out a deep breath slowly. "Let's think of this as a two weeks in advance thing. I get two weeks to decide."

"Deal."

"Have you even been with a guy before?" I went back to picking at my pancakes, suddenly not very hungry.

"Yes. Yeah, I told you that."

"I thought it was one of your stories, you know?"

"No, it was real. This can be real too. And, you know, serious. Like Abigail was going to be."

"If I don't like it, you won't hold it against me," I said firmly.

"Of course not. You're my best friend, Gus." He reached out his hand and curled it around the one I had on the handle of the fork. I glanced at the two hands, the contrast of the skin, the shape of the hands, the sturdiness of his grip.

"I'll give it a try, then, I guess," I said, still not looking away from the sight. "I mean, why not?"

"BFFs," he confirmed, giving my hand a brief squeeze. He pulled his hand away, and I slowly met his gaze again. We shared a brief smile, connecting, and I went back to eating his pancakes.


End file.
